


The Shame and The Disgrace

by NicuCostam



Series: Wstyd i hańba [3]
Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Kinda AU, M/M, POV Second Person, Ugh, nothing graphic everything suggested
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 17:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13058508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicuCostam/pseuds/NicuCostam
Summary: Let's say Lester didn't lie about everything about his past. That there was a period in his life when he lived with the Mr. and Mrs. Wilkers. They could call him Leonard (he probably hates that name now). That might explain why he hates Daken so much.





	The Shame and The Disgrace

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Wstyd i hańba](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923830) by [NicuCostam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicuCostam/pseuds/NicuCostam). 



> It's all because of those two pages from 'Bullseye - Greatest Hits' #02  
> Wrote, idek, September 2015 and translated... let's say today.

**I**

At first, you try to ignore. Nothing unusual, people like baseball. Sometimes they even like to watch training.

Friends, girlfriends or family, waiting for players. They greet each other and go together to home or eat something. But he's waiting for no one.

They're freaks that sit on tribune with notebook and pencil and note. Numbers of bases that ran around the batter; throws botched by the pitcher, how many times coach yelled at the nerd who warms the bench. Waste of time. You heard that it's because of some diseases that force them to note that shit. That they're looking for meaning in this or some order. But he doesn't have notebook or pencil. 

Asked, coach just shrugs and mutters something between pedophile and faggot. Or maybe coach says that at the same time, loudly and audibly? But he doesn't look at anyone in particular. He sits bored on a bench, sometimes stands, and when you and team go to the locker room, he just disappears.

For a long time, you don't care. You only listen to the comments in the locker room but don't say anything. With time the conversations stop, no one care. But he's still there. 

One evening, after last training before winter break, you go to the cold and dark outside. The bag is heavy on your shoulder, and red glow of cigarette lighter darkness when you take a draw. Of course, you shouldn't smoke, you're only seventeen. Of course, you don't care. 

Friends from the team say goodbyes, Bye Leo! or See you tomorrow or even Today was good!. You don't care for words or the ones that say them. You know that you're better. Better than all of them. 

You go through streets, not to home, but also not 'not' to home. You wander because you like cold evenings like this. You don't pay attention to anything, still ahead. To get lost, to find yourself, to be alone with thoughts that don't matter. 

And then you see a familiar figure. You know how he looks because his presence became certain, like that after night comes a day. Finally, you have an opportunity to see him close. He stands in a gate of some old ruined house, illuminated only by dying light bulb. A bit shorter has something exotic in the face. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dark heart? 

He draws his hand to you and you feel nice warmth when with dark voice says: “You are the best.”

Why shouldn't you touch him? 

* * *

**II**

Suburbs should be forbidden. They make you sick. 

Little perfect yards, little perfect houses, the perfect families. 2+1. Husband with a well-paid job, likes football, dogs, and his car. Wife has full gossip network in a neighborhood, cook good enough and will do everything to stay normal in eyes of her friends. Child, no matter what gender, will go to that nice high school, will like sport or be a nerd, will go to the same college that parents. 

Let it burn. 

You mutter passing mailbox, going through the main door and short hallway… You see light from the living room. A blue, shaky glow of TV. Right now goes an evening comedy show. You never found it amusing. He sits in an armchair that isn't even comfortable and quietly snores. Theoretically, you should, at least, go to TV and turn it off. Give old man some rest. But you know that sudden silence, turning off that buzzing background of a dream, could wake him up. 

You don't want to wake him up. Not because you care, but because you hate. Because you know that if that man wakes he will go with you on the floor or tell you to stay in the living room. And you even don't know which possibility is worse. 

So you just go to your room, close the door and still in clothes lay on bed. 

You bite your lips. When you were coming back you still could feel on them the sweet taste. But now everything seems bitter. 

* * *

**III**

Thud. 

Thud. 

Right in your ears. Taking every part of you. Ripping you from sweet dreams. 

Voice of your father from behind the doors. Old, dark plywood and four locks are only an impression. Nothing that could protect. 

Father keeps saying your name, the one that you hate, saying you need to wake up. 

And you remind yourself that this man is not really your father. 

Thud. 

Never stops. It only gets louder when watch starts beeping. 

That's how all your mornings look like. 

Noises end when you get down to the kitchen. 

“What were you doing yesterday, Leonard? Seems you come late…”

Knife for bread is long, but feels good in your hand. Teeth on blade look so tiny, little silver crescents. Not really sharp, just enough to cut thick crust of bread. Crumbs are all over the countertop. 

I was with friends from team.

But knife for butter is completely blunt. Sometimes you use this one to jam or peanut butter. 

“Yeah… That's good. That, you make friends.”

There is another knife. Father sharps this one every week. One time you cut yourself and blood dripped slowly from blade. You were so mesmerized that mother forcibly removed knife from your hand. 

I'll be late today. 

You say closing front door behind you. 

* * *

**IV**

You are alone in the locker room, everyone else is gone, but you have stayed because... Doesn't matter, you just wanted to be alone.

 

However, you are not alone. Somewhere in the back of your head, there is this feeling. The one that someone is watching you. When you turn you do not see anything unusual, white tiles, metal cabinets, wooden benches...

 

An unlit corridor leading outside. Like something is lurking in the dark.

 

And then a hand emerges from this darkness. The skin is darker than yours, black nails and mark of a black tattoo on the back of hand and forearm. You know. He is warm and soft like silk.

* * *

**V**

In your mouth, the taste of beer and cigarette smoke mixes up, at the same time magnificent and hideous.

 

You lie on your back, with your right hand under the nape of your neck, your legs hang loosely from the bed, your feet are resting on the floor. You turn your head to the left and you see dark eyes. You could drown in them. They are not just black, more blue, navy blue, like when one orders a child to draw a night sky or a sea abyss, and they just take the darkest shade of blue that they can find and evenly covers the whole page. You see exactly this.

 

First, you move your mouth silently, and when you finally manage to put together a sentence, you ask:

Who are you?

 

Your head, your thoughts, your whole body, everything is so heavy. You have the impression that you are falling into a mattress, your own, soft coffin.

 

The man who lies next to you on the side, supported by his arm, raises your chin with a tattooed hand. He whispers in your mouth between kisses.

"It doesn't matter."

 

The hot tongue touches yours. That's sweet. Sweeter than blood.

* * *

**VI**

You discover a new cycle that rules your life. You get up, answer your father's questions, go to school, then train, walk around the city and fall back on the bed. Finally it's a Saturday morning, you lie on your back, still covered with a quilt and you just don't know what to do with yourself.

 

Part of you would prefer to stay in this small, warm paradise. Some part would like to get away from stupid thoughts and even stupid questions and do something. Anything. Just do not bother with all this shit.

 

Ultimately, you are in the park, in one of the less frequented paths, which is the result of a truly idiotic layout of the area,  and you're skipping stones. Silted pond, which should already be buried a few years ago, swallows stones with a hungry splash. Throw and count bounces.

 

Once. Two.

 

Although the sun's gentle heat, a strong wind blows, so you do not pull off your hat.

 

Once. Two. Three.

 

Although you are trying to cleanse your head, the intrusive thoughts are coming back, those which you would have to face anyway.

 

Once. Two. Three. Four.

 

You are considering all pros and cons of such a situation.

 

Once. Two. Three. Four. Five.

 

Sometimes you think that everything would be easier if you wouldn't care.

 

Once. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

 

It means: as if there were no consequences.

 

Once. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

 

There is no consequence.

 

Once. Two. Three. Four. Bake. Six. Seven. Eight.

 

A warm hand gives you a smooth stone. He smiles in greeting, but instead of answering, you snort and skip stone for the last time.

 

Thirteen.

 

"Such pity that this pond is so small. I would like to see your record."

 

And although the words seem warm and the smile sympathetic, you know that something is behind this. Mystery. Something cold and dangerous. Like a dagger or knife.

 

And for the first time, you have the opportunity to look at him in the daylight. Suddenly you want to suffocate him.

 

However, you do not say anything, do nothing, despite some unknown desires you turn away. And he follows you.

* * *

**VII**

You have a spoonful of watery soup. It does not taste good, but you do not say anything, you're not a total asshole. Father is looking at you along the table. You pretend you do not see his glassy eyes and turn the page in the book.

 

"I thought, Leonard... That we could go to the cemetery. I mean, we have not been to the grave for a long time..."

 

The voice breaks under his emotions, his arms and head are lowered. You look at him. Two years and he still mourns.

 

We can go tomorrow.

 

It's the first thing that comes to mind. You don't regret anything.

 

He wipes nose in a handkerchief with her initials, a memento of the past, and changes the subject. He asks:

 

"What's title?"

 

You raise the book, showing the cover, the material imitating the skin and small golden letters "The Bell Jar".

 

Pretty good.

 

He smiles gently, so proud of you.

* * *

**VIII**

Mrs. Wilkerson's grave is small and ugly. A cheap gray gravestone with name and dates, and her husband is standing next to you, Mr. Wilkerson. He puts his right hand on the stone, embraces you with left and cries.

He takes your silence for sorrow, but you do not intend to reveal the truth to him.

 

You've lived with them for two years, when she died in an accident. She wanted to go to her friend for a cup of coffee and gossip, but everything went down in flames when she started the engine of a new car. They said it was an unfortunate accident, a strange fault. They didn't withdraw this model, they didn't announce a free action to remove the factory defect and they gave Mr. Wilkerson a large compensation. Significantly large.

 

Money are on some bank account, and Mrs. Wilkerson, in the ground, on the cemetery.

 

You hated her because she was weak, stupid and had a nice smile. Because she lied about not seeing anything, she pretended that the bruises came from fights. That it's normal, that it can be like this.

 

She's been dead for two years and you hate her as much as you did back then.

 

"Killing is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well."

* * *

**IX**

You look out the window at the empty street, the snowflakes are melting on the dirty pavement creating puddles, the broken lighthouse blinks into the dark streets. You feel the breath in your ear and hot hands wrapped around your waist. You place your forehead on the cool surface of the glass. "What am I doing here?" you ask in your mind. However, your lips leave something else. A small puff of warm air, a faint sigh. Then you feel lips on the back of your neck and fingers touching the skin of the stomach.

 

He giggles with his nose near your neck. He knows you can not refuse him. He knows that you are not able to think straight in his vicinity.

 

What are you doing to me?

 

You whisper, though you're not sure if you made a sound at all. You struggle to catch your breath, the air is heavy and suffocating. You would like to give yourself totally to him.

 

"Shhh..." he murmurs between kisses. Actually, he does not say much, just smiles and looks, and then the mouth is too busy anyway. He's sweet, there is something feline in his movements, calculating and predatory when he slowly, painfully slowly, touches you with his fingertips.

 

This night you don't look him in the eyes.

* * *

**X**

You leave school with everyone because the training is over and he is there. He stands behind the gate, a brown wool coat, black leather gloves, new shoes. Looks elegant, even with that stupid mohawk, a souvenir of the eighties.

 

"Let's go." He says, and without waiting for your answer, he walks down the street.

 

You follow him, you do not know where and why, and you do not know why you're so... irritated. It reminds you of the situation at the pond, but you can't figure out the difference between your meetings during the day and evenings...

 

Shooting range?

 

You stand before old, brick building. You come in, he smiles with that sphinx smile that makes you want to knock out all the teeth behind his pink lips and says:

 

"I want to see what you can really do."

* * *

**XI**

You're lying in your bed, the door with the locks that do not protect anything is still open, and clock on the bedside table shows 4 am. Two hours ago, you came back home late for two hours. You smelled of beer and cigarettes, and sweat, but it didn't matter. You shouted and begged, but it didn't matter.

 

You are seventeen, and this hasn't happened for the first time.

 

In your mind, you reset the meter, the last one and a half of year, and try to get up, somehow... somehow get over it. In your mind, you make a list: a new sheet and bedding, shower, throw away clothes and then go to sleep. In the morning, no one will make you go to school, you will get breakfast in bed and pretend that nothing has happened. Like you have just a fucking cold.

 

You have control over it. You have control over it.

 

In the bathroom you turn on cold water, you want to wash away everything, but water isn't enough. There will be bruises on the ribs and a black eye and a hole in your smile after that broken tooth.

And you reach for the razor to shave your hair. Ugly, blond hair he was holding you for.

 

When it's all over, you look at the clock, and it's 5:30 am. You look around the room and you know that you don't want to stay here. Not when he sleeps behind the wall.

* * *

**XII**

You knock on the known doors, but no one answers, you want to tug on the handle, just to be sure, and they open up in front of you. You think what an idiot he is that he leaves the door open and you lie on the couch in the middle of the room.

 

And you wait. However, no one comes.

**Author's Note:**

> Saw some awful writing/grammar mistakes? Hit me, I swear I won't cry
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://thirstyforred.tumblr.com/)


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